144: Wrath

by Dallas E. Caldwell

  Polas slowly removed his blade from the fallen man’s skull and stalked toward the overweight sorcerer. With a quick slash, the man breathed his last and fell crashing through the bench behind him.

  The Narculd had not been idle. Ten small boiling pits dotted the floor, and one large fissure completely swallowed a table as it opened near the center of the room. The Narculd stood with his hands raised, large red eyes bulging.

  "Kas Dorian, the Iron Butcher, your life-force will sustain me for ten lifetimes! I will show you why my mastery of necromancy and the summoning arts make me the greatest sorcerer of this age. You’re iron blooded resistance won’t save you from the power of Vrihnassk, the Rotted One!"

  Vrihnassk nodded to the Peltin man standing next to him. The servant took a few steps forward and rolled his orb into the largest void. It sank away as though falling into thick tar, and the man hurried to the back of the room near the staircase.

  Polas took a few steps back as skeletal hands clawed their way out of the smaller holes. Undead soldiers, bereft of flesh and sinew, stumbled from the pits. Their eye sockets were hollow voids of soulless hatred, and the emptiness within their ribcages coveted the life that flowed within Polas’s veins.

  Polas had fought undead before, and he was not afraid. Granted, he had previously carried with him the Blade of Leindul, which could sever arcane bonds and prevent the skeletons from reforming, but he was confident in his skill.

  His confidence wavered, however, as a massive hook and chain hurtled out of the larger pit and snagged on a ceiling rafter. A second chain followed it, and hands as large as a horse pulled the body of a giant fiend behind them. The creature was a gorachna, a ferocious, bipedal beast with the body of an oversized Mela gorilla. It had long, powerful front limbs that it used for climbing and ripping apart its prey, and its back legs were short but strong and swift. Its hide was a leathery black and hard as a rock. From its back, spikes the size of a Peltin man protruded, leaking great drops a dark ichor that produced tiny gouts of flame as they hit the ground.

  The gorachna’s cry was deep and earth rumbling. Its mouth sprayed phlegm across the room, and its giant incisors gleamed in the low light. Polas had faced off against such a creature only once before, and that time he had had help. This being possessed the strength and ferocity of a normal gorachna, and as a summoned beast, lacked any of the hesitations brought by thoughts of self-preservation.

  Vrihnassk lowered his hands and laughed. "Bring me his heart."

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The theatre swarmed with thieves. Flint had stopped trying to count after reaching fifty.

  Each of the assassins bore the eight-point star that marked them as members of the House of Stars. They came in from the stage area, from hidden doors in the floor, and even appeared out of the very air. Upon realizing that there might not be an end to their numbers, Flint had turned his efforts to removing the bars that had locked them in the room in the first place. The Thieves’ Guild mercenaries seemed content to wait until their full number had arrived before attacking as individuals, and he was not about to lose the precious seconds dilly-dallying in nervous anticipation.

  "Strangely," Flint said, "I do hope that the boy was betraying us."

  Xandra turned hurt but curious eyes on him.

  "If not, I’m afraid he might not be long for this world."

  Xandra looked up into the balcony and across the room at one of the large banners. Flint followed her eyes, and he knew his pupil’s intention.

  He nodded. "Go."

  Xandra sprinted toward the banner closest to the balcony, and the House of Stars assassins took it as their cue to attack. She was forced to dodge sword thrusts and to weave through a flurry of strikes as she made her way across the large room. She dropped her heavy outer robes as she leaped across the last stretch, vaulting off the back of an assassin whose attack fell short.

  Flint watched her until she was safely out of reach halfway up the banner. Amidst the chaos of the rapidly filling room, he had almost failed to notice the tremors that ran through Vor’s body. The Dorokti King knelt, and black fury clouded his eyes.

  "It’d be best if you left too, Flint," Vor said through chattering teeth. "I have trouble knowing who I’m killing when it happens."

  "Perhaps at least a parting shot to help even the odds." He pointed one finger toward the middle of the room, and a fountain of flame soaked the area.

  "Go now, book-herder!"

  Flint closed his eyes and chanted a few choice words. His body steamed, and a glowing wreath of fire erupted above his skin. A group of assassins awaited him on the other side of the barred door, so he lowered his shoulder and charged. The bars stopped him, but only for a moment as they soon melted to slag. The assassins pounced to attack, but the white-hot flames engulfed them. Flint did not look back when he heard Vor roar behind him. He knew he could not afford to stick around and risk seeing exactly how savage a true Dorokti Berserker became when enraged.

  He ran as fast as his meaty legs could carry him, careful not to bump into any walls lest he set the whole building on fire. Once he felt he had covered enough distance, he slowed and chanced a glance back.

  He had not been followed, and in his adrenaline-fueled flight, he had covered much more ground than he realized. He patted out the flames on his arms and shoulders and took a moment to catch his breath.

  Farther down the hallway, he heard a crash and a monstrous bellow. The Faldred shook his head and began to run again. This time he only made it a few steps before he put his hands behind his head and slowed to a brisk walk.

  "Not to worry, Master Kas Dorian," he said. "Flint is on his way."

  Kiff reached the top of the short stairway and paused. He found himself in a room he had passed through many times before. It was a beautifully decorated waiting room meant to impress Guild guests before they spent an evening in the theatre. A small, clean bar stood empty in one corner. On the floor was a woven rug the length of three horses. It was silver and black and bore the emblem of the House of Suns. In fact, the mark was on every wall, over the entryways to the room, and woven into every drape. One thing was for certain, the Suns liked to mark their territory.

  Kiff was tired of pretense and illusions. He was tired of always being the one that no one trusted. Unfortunately, walking away from a life like the one he had led was not such an easy task. He turned and took one last, hesitant glance at the door behind him. Across the room from him was a hallway that led to the office of Shirmattaa, the leader of the House of Suns. Kiff knew that he would hide the keys to the portal that could take the others to Waysmale somewhere in his office. He had brought them so close to their dreams only to have it all fall apart again.

  Kiff was through living for others’ dreams. He still had a few of his own.

  On the stairs behind him, two invisible figures tiptoed up with blades drawn. They were House of Stars stalkers, entry-level assassins that had passed their initial tests and been granted access to the House of Suns’ alchemy labs.

  How they loved those invisibility tonics.

  They lunged for him, but Kiff was already moving.

  He kicked his board forward across the room and fell backward into a roll. When he stood, the stalkers were in front of him with their backs exposed. Years ago, he would have dispatched them with one blade in each hand. It would have taken less than a second. As it was, it took nearly two as he sliced the first assassin through the spine along the waistline and brought the blade up into the side of the second man’s skull. Both men fell forward in spasms. Their invisibility faded, and Kiff was left standing over the dying bodies of two young Peltin boys no older than sixteen.

  "You should know better than to try that trick on an Undlander," Kiff said.

  He heard footsteps entering the room, and he looked up to see at least twenty stalkers storming in from the sides. From the theatre behind him, he heard Vor roar.

  "No turning back."

  He dashed forward and l
eaped onto his board, his momentum whisking him swiftly down the hallway. A large, carved door with a golden handle awaited him at the end of the corridor. He spun as he reached it, throwing the door open wide then closing it just as quickly after he had entered. He slid a large, wooden post into place to prevent any further entry and activated the door’s arcane protections.

  "You’re late," Shirmattaa said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Xandra reached the upper terrace when the door flew open. Assassins ran into the balcony with weapons drawn, ready for blood.

  She landed softly among the collection of movable chairs and serving tables and sprang into action. She flipped one of the chairs up into the air and sent it crashing into the mass of stalkers. They spread out to engage her, and she searched desperately for a way over or around the mass of blades or some way to waste as little time as possible.

  She made a dash for the door, but a sideways attack cut her off and forced her to parry and spin away. She ducked another blow and retreated a few steps, catching her foot on one of the low tables. She whirled her staff in a dizzying display of skill and agility, but she was being pressed back. With another dodged blade, the edge of the balcony was only a few steps behind her with the promise of a crippling, if not deadly, fall.

  Vor’s vision throbbed and blurred in time with his pulse. His heartbeat slowed to a solid, low thrum that rattled his ribcage, and he could feel his blood thickening. Black veins clouded his eyes, narrowed his vision, and robbed his sight of all color. His limbs grew light, and his breath came in long, slow draws as his lungs held in extra stores of oxygen.

  The assassins moved in around him slowly, testing his reactions, none wanting to be the first to try the Dorokti’s skill with a blade. Vor hated assassins. He wanted them all dead. Every last one of them had to die by his hand.

  All sound faded but the booming of his heart. He could smell their fear, taste it in the air.

  He stood and roared. The sound of it shook his attackers to their very core. One of them cried out and yelled something toward the balcony, but the Dorokti King did not hear it. However, he did see the man’s lips move. Vor had found his first target.

  His axe swung out, clipping the man’s head clean from his shoulders. Before the severed skull hit the ground, Vor had cleaved two more assassins from collar to hip. Panic tore through the group. These were men of blood and blade, and the Thieves’ Guild had done its best to drive the thought of fleeing from their minds. With terror-fueled adrenaline, they attacked.

  Vor savored each blow, each spray of blood, each mouthed scream, and each hewn limb. The battle consumed his mind, and even his identity faded to a shadow. He was an avatar of death.

  Shirmattaa sat back in his oversized chair with his feet kicked up on his desk. He swirled a snifter filled with a dark ale and chewed a stick of haryn. He wore a billowy robe made of extravagant furs that clung to him in all his sweatiest places. The costly mantel looked very out of place in the tepid room, but, no doubt, he was certain that it kept him on the forefront of fashion.

  The room was dark save for a small candle and the glow of a large magestone sitting in the center of the desk. On its surface, images of the theatre room danced and played.

  "Come over here, Kiff." Shirmattaa pulled the haryn from his mouth and licked his lips. "Have a seat."

  Kiff picked up his board and walked over to the desk, but declined to sit. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back of one of the tall chairs.

  "I’m a little disappointed in you, boy," Shirmattaa said. "We had an arrangement, and you strayed from my plan. You’re lucky I was clever enough to devise this situation on the fly."

  "First of all," Kiff said, "I’m not your boy. Second, I never really was a fan of our arrangement so I decided to make my own. However, I will be using that portal you’re dangling out as bait for the Iron Butcher."

  Shirmattaa stood and slapped his clammy fists down on the desk. "What? Who do you think you are, Underpeltin? You’re a House of Stars assassin, nothing more. You belong to the Thieves’ Guild. I own you."

  Kiff ran his fingers around the edge of Shirmattaa’s desk. He put his arm around the bulbous man and forced him back down into his seat.

  "I don’t belong to anyone, got that?" Kiff said. "Not anymore."

  Shirmattaa reached for the callstone hidden beneath his desk to summon a guardian to protect him, but Kiff’s sickle flashed in the candlelight and pinned the fat man’s hand to the desk.

  The leader of the House of Suns cried out and tried to pull away from the pain, but he was stuck. The more he struggled, the more tendons were severed. Finally, he sat still and held his wrist with his free hand lest a tremor cause him any more damage.

  "You’re going to be really quiet now and listen to me," Kiff whispered. "You’re going to pull back the House of Stars and anybody else you have in motion, and you’re going to step aside and watch as Kas Dorian and the others leave through your magic gateway."

  "You fool!" Shirmattaa yelled, each word spraying saliva into the air. "The Guild will hunt you to the very edge of Traesparin!"

  Kiff touched his chin and popped his neck. "Two months until my twentieth year, and I still only answer to ‘Kiff.’ I’m about to become a hunted man anyway."

  "Kiff, this… this… it’s not like you. Let’s deal. W-what do you want? What do you need? I’ll get it for you. Anything. How about that girl, the fire-headed lass? Yes, if I know you, she’s your game. I’ll make sure you get first go at her."

  Kiff slapped the man across the face, and Shirmattaa’s hand tore a little more from the movement.

  "Don’t for one second think that you know anything about me. Now call off your dogs."

  "I can’t. I can’t!" Shirmattaa squealed. "It’s beyond my control."

  Kiff raised his arm again, and Shirmattaa ducked, tugging once more on his pinned hand.

  "Spare me. It doesn’t get any higher up than you. You say hold, and the Thieves' Guild holds."

  "I’m telling you, Kiff. You’ve got to believe me. It’s this Calec guy, came with orders directly from Exandercrast. I renege on this deal and I’m a soul slave for eternity. Even if I could pull my people back, Exandercrast has a legion of Ibor warriors waiting on the other side of the portal to ambush anyone who steps through. Those beasts would just as soon eat the flesh from my bones as heed my orders."

  Shirmattaa was sweat profusely and blubbered like a elderly woman in the throes of bloodboil, so Kiff had trouble discerning whether that last bit of information was a lie to throw him off course. He decided it was unlikely that Shirmattaa would come up with such a ruse under the circumstances. The man was never known for his creativity.

  Kiff leaned over Shirmattaa from behind and pulled the man’s head back by his greasy hair.

  "Where is the portal?" Kiff asked.

  "Behind the Suns’ banner."

  Still holding the man’s hair, Kiff half-turned and brushed the banner to the side. Behind it was a short hallway that ended in a billowing black pane of nothingness.

  "Guess that explains why it’s so hot in here," Kiff said. "You’ve got an open window to the lava-flows of Firevers."

  "You see," Shirmattaa said. "I was telling the truth. You will all be slaughtered as soon as you step through. There’s nothing you can do about it, but there’s no reason you can’t still profit from the situation. You can retire, take the name Thiefking or Shadowdeath, I don’t know. I’ve heard them whisper a thousand names in your wake."

  "Now why in the hells would I want a name like that?"

  "Coin then. Whatever you want." Shirmattaa’s mouth frothed with spit and blood. "I don’t know what you Underpeltins look for up here. Gold. Magestones. Anything. I beg of you."

  "Now you’re sounding desperate." Kiff released the man and took a step behind the banner toward the portal.

  Shirmattaa leaned forward and began working the sickle back and forth, trying to pry it from his
hand. The point was stuck in the thick wood of his desk, he was having trouble staying conscious as more, and more blood squirted from the wound with each tug.

  Kiff returned and grabbed the blade. "Forgot my knife,".

  He jerked the curved weapon up and slashed Shirmattaa’s throat all in one deft motion. With some effort, Kiff hoisted the man’s body from its chair and carried it before him toward the portal.

  "This is a really bad idea," Kiff said before he stepped into the shimmering darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Xandra battled forward from the edge of the balcony. She spun, wrapping her long braid around her neck so that no one could use it to pull her back. A new wave of assassins rushed into the balcony, and she felt the floor beneath her lurch under the weight.

  Her quarterstaff was a blur of motion, sending several assassins over the edge or knocking them into nearby chairs. For every step she gained toward the door, she lost another then another.

  She closed her eyes. "Sorry, Master."

  She spun her staff in a tight circle, hand over hand, directly in front of her. A white light grew at its center. Several of the assassins hesitated or tried to get out of the way, but it was too late. Xandra’s eyes went white, and she unleashed her Gift.

  A brilliant beam of eviscerating energy lanced out from her hands. Focused through her staff, the beam of white light was wider than an aurochs and disintegrated everything in its path. Thieves’ Guild stalkers were cut down by the ray, as were chairs, tables, and the door out of the room.

  Xandra stumbled once from over-exertion then ran headlong into the gap she had created. Beyond the door, a perfect circle had been cut through the stairway, requiring Xandra to leap across an empty expanse and land five steps up.